


The Slope

by izzygone



Series: The Spiral [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzygone/pseuds/izzygone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> “On your knees.” Sherlock says as he enters the flat, seeing John standing in the area between the kitchen and the living room.</p><p>John’s knees fold so quickly, there’s an audible “thwack!” as they hit the hardwood floor, but he makes no attempt to steady himself. Sherlock hates it when he tries to break his fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Slope

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published "dark" fic and features a somewhat dubious layer of consent that leans-toward-given-rather-than-non and is associated with Stockholm syndrome. You know your triggers better than I, so please proceed with appropriate caution.

“On your knees.” Sherlock says as he enters the flat, seeing John standing in the area between the kitchen and the living room.

John’s knees fold so quickly, there’s an audible “thwack!” as they hit the hardwood floor, but he makes no attempt to steady himself. Sherlock hates it when he tries to break his fall. He calls that “hesitation.”

Sherlock begins immediately to circle his flatmate at a slow and steady pace. He’s in a foul mood, as John had known he would be after seeing his brother (why, then, had John hung around the flat? He could have protected himself from this…).

The detective mumbles to himself, talking about Mycroft, maybe, explaining to John _why_ he does what he does, but John can’t hear it. Blood pounds in his ears and he feels dizzy from the sudden drop to the floor and the redistribution of blood to his cock which is already half hard. He tells himself it’s Stockholm syndrome. That his body has its wires crossed and is reacting automatically to protect itself by doing what Sherlock wants it to do. A reaction to prevent pain. It couldn’t be that John _enjoyed_ this. That wasn’t sane. Whatever this was, it wasn’t sane.

Sherlock is still pacing but his gait is getting slower and he’s getting closer, “Are you even _listening_ to me, John?” He grabs John’s hair roughly and pulls him so he’s leaning back against him, neck stretched out, and John whimpers. He’s listening _now_.

John swallows hard and tries to nod, but Sherlock’s grip is tight and pulls him taut so that in order to move, he’d need to rise off his knees, which wasn’t something he’d do for anything. And he knows better than to try to speak.

“Open your mouth.” And John does, trying to ignore that the pain in his scalp feels less like pain already and his cock is twitching its way from automatic-reaction-half-hard to fuck-does-this-really-turn-me-on-fully hard and ready.

In an instant, John’s mouth is filled with two pale, long fingers. He automatically begins to suck on them, moving his tongue over them like he would if they were replaced by Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock begins moving them back and forth, in and out, fucking John’s mouth with his fingers lazily. John’s cock is not pulsating and leaking, leaving a tiny trail of precome inside his pants. It is not.

“God, you’re so _eager_ ,” Sherlock says above him with just a hint of disgust, no longer tugging at his hair but still holding John back against his stomach, he runs his hand through the doctor’s hair, as if trying to sooth him, “You want me to fuck your mouth, don’t you?”

John nods emphatically around the fingers intruding his mouth and his cock presses furiously against his trousers, and _fuck,_ John longs to unzip, relieve the pressure there, but he knows far better than that. Above him, Sherlock sighs, “Well turn around then,” He sounds exasperated and _charitable_ , as if he’s doing this _for_ John rather than to him. John swallows once more around Sherlock’s fingers, sucks them to remove the extra saliva as Sherlock pulls them from his mouth with a distinctive suction-induced “pop!” Sherlock studies his fingers – studies _John_ – for a long moment, like maybe he wants to shove the fingers _back_. Instead, he wipes them through John’s hair and helps him spin around on his knees so John is facing him. John looks up because Sherlock likes to see his eyes while he performs fellatio but can’t stop himself from glancing quickly across Sherlock’s tented trousers. John’s throat goes dry thinking about what he’s about to do. There’s no denying, now – John is so, so hard. _Fuck_ , he can’t enjoy this. He can’t look forward to this, he can’t be aching and leaking at the idea of Sherlock fucking his face. It must be Stockholm syndrome. But his cock strains in its prison, twitching and swelling, his balls heavy and ready for orgasm. And god, he wants that. He wants _relief_. He wants to adjust himself in his pants. He wants to touch himself. He wants _Sherlock_ to touch him. But he’s deluding himself – Sherlock _never_ touches John intimately – not even when he has John bent over and wet on the inside, pushing in and out of him with barely-veiled desperation – but he does like to see John get himself off, so maybe he will let him do that today.

“Take your cock out.” Sherlock says casually, _patiently_ in his absent-minded voice, the one he used to indicate disinterest, as if this were something he is doing as an after thought. John knows that isn’t the case, but he cock still twitches with need at the voice, like Sherlock’s disinterest is actually a turn on.

Slowly, with shaky hands, John reaches down to unbutton his jeans, then starts to unzip, one centimeter at a time. He draws it out, though he couldn’t say why until Sherlock nudges him hard with his foot, “We haven’t got all day,” he says with a twinge of impatience returning. Ah, that’s what John was looking for. He wants to be reminded that Sherlock _wants_ this, no matter how bored he tries to seem.

In five seconds flat, the zipper is open and John has his cock in his hand, exposing it to the chill of the room. He doesn’t move, but, _god_ , how he wants to. He is minutes, seconds maybe, from orgasm. The right touch, the right amount of firmness and he’d be there. But Sherlock hasn’t said he could yet.

“Open your mouth.” Sherlock says again, his voice low and rougher than it had been the first time. John wants to smirk but instead drops his jaw. Sherlock is still petting John’s hair and continues to do so for a minute, looking into John’s gaping mouth as he tugs down his own zipper and slips his cock out between the folds. John has to stop himself from closing his mouth to swallow. His breath is rigid, catching in his lungs and he forces himself not to pant with need. Sherlock’s cock is flushed and throbbing, the foreskin folded back and the slit on the head glistening with precome. Fuck him, but John really does want it in his mouth.

Sherlock runs his fingers up and across John’s face, like he’s petting him, then grabs again at the tuft of hair at the top of John’s head. Without warning, he shoves forward and into John’s mouth. John stretches his jaw to accommodate and relaxes his reflexes as Sherlock forces his way to the very back of his throat. He’s so full, his mouth and jaw aching from the stretch and tears automatically springing to his eyes from the strain of it. Above him, Sherlock lets out a deep and guttural moan, one that quakes his whole body, even his cock seems to shudder with it, “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, “You feel like you were _made_ for this, John,” and, though he knows it’s more than just a bit not good, John swells with pride – like being someone’s fucktoy is a noble calling. Hesitantly, John starts moving his tongue back and forth. It’s pinned under Sherlock’s wide cock, held down by Sherlock’s need to reach the back of his throat. Sherlock lets out another deep groan and starts to pull back slowly, allowing John to maneuver his tongue better, wrapping it around Sherlock’s swollen cock, twirling in a practiced manner and drawing out stuttering moans. John’s tongue prods at the slit on the tip, lapping up the salty precome in a way that makes Sherlock grip John’s hair tighter, rougher. It burns in a way that feels a little _too_ good, and John automatically curls his fingers around his own cock, stroking it once with lightning speed as if, even unconsciously, he knows doing so is directly disobeying Sherlock and he doesn’t want to get caught. Of course, Sherlock misses nothing and nudges John’s hand away with his foot before rocking forward again, heaving himself unexpectedly back into John’s throat, nearly choking him. “Did I give you permission to touch yourself?”

There’s a hard edge to the voice now, and John wants to close his eyes, hide, but he can’t because that would only make Sherlock angrier, instead he blinks and stares up into Sherlock’s wide and blazing eyes, shaking his head and fighting his gag reflex as Sherlock begins to move without leaving his mouth, tiny strokes back and forth, preventing John from properly breathing. He feels dizzy from the lack of breath and the sheer sinfulness of what they were doing. He’s pretty sure his eyes start to roll backward before Sherlock finally pulls back, letting John’s throat relax enough to suck in a few shaky breaths. John’s lips automatically grip Sherlock’s cock still, and his tongue resumes teasing the underside of it, flicking over the vein there with extra pressure. Sherlock makes a noise that might be described as a whine if it were coming from any other person. John’s cock lay outside his trousers, against the cool, rough metal of the zipper, every muscle in his legs and abdomen is tense, straining against his own weight and the desire for orgasm. He can’t touch himself again, though – the last time he did something like that, Sherlock didn’t let him come for a week – John hadn’t even attempted masturbating alone the entire time or since.

He needs to do _something_ with his hands, though, they feel useless and tempting against his sides, but he knows better than to reach up and touch Sherlock without permission. He flexes his fingers then tightens them into fists. Sherlock laughs above him, and John watches him tip his head back. He isn’t looking down at John, but that doesn’t give John permission to look away, too, so instead his eyes follow Sherlock’s prominent Adam’s apple as it moves up and down with each swallow.

John’s mouth is hot and slippery, filled with Sherlock’s cock as he cants forward and backward. It’s more like being fucked than giving head, John thinks. Sometimes he really does give Sherlock head, all slow with lots of sucking alternating with licking and even bringing his hands up and massaging Sherlock’s bollocks and stroking the shaft while Sherlock sits or lies on the couch watching telly or even at the desk when researching for a case or an experiment. That’s not what it was like this time. This time, John feels more like a receptacle. It feels more like Sherlock is masturbating using John’s mouth instead of his own hand. John’s cock twitches and leaks another thin streak of fluid. Being used is not a turn on for John. It isn’t.

Sherlock moves forward again, rising onto his heels and shoving further, harder, burrowing toward John’s throat. How can he take this? How can John be full to the lips with Sherlock, feel the tickle of the hair curling at the base of Sherlock’s cock against his lips? How could anyone possibly fit so much in them? But John manages and as he continues to rub his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s shaft and attempts to suck as best he can without any air, he wants more of it. Fuck, he wants so much more. He wants Sherlock in his mouth like this and also somehow in his arse like he was last night and still more with his hands around John’s own cock like Sherlock only does in his fantasies. He wants to be surrounded and filled and covered in Sherlock. If he were to die right now, with Sherlock thick and hard in his mouth… well, he couldn’t think of many better ways to go.

Sherlock looks down at him with sharp fascination, like maybe he knows what John is thinking, “Do it,” he says, a bit breathlessly, “Touch yourself. Use your right hand. Grip my leg with your left.” John does as he’s told – not because he likes taking orders, no way but – fuck, his hand feels like gold, cold and a little wet with sweat and he wants to thrust up into it, but stays still because Sherlock is still at the back of his throat and he can’t move. With his left hand, he clings to Sherlock’s calf muscle, digging his fingertips in and causing Sherlock to grunt and draw his hips back only to shove right back into John’s throat again.

John’s chest is heaving, he’s desperate for air, maybe, but more so desperate to feel Sherlock’s come fill his mouth and drip down his throat. He strokes himself roughly and without rhythm, short quick strokes made awkward by the fact that he isn’t using his dominant hand. Sherlock starts to really fuck him, too, moving back and forth with such speed, John just tightens his lips, making a firm hole for Sherlock to thrust into, “You want me to come in your mouth, John?” He’s saying, and John murmurs a yes, fuck, yes, as best he can around the invasion against his tongue, “God, you do want it, you little slut,” John is still looking up, watching the heady look on Sherlock’s face, his eyes half closed and mouth agape, dragging in heavy breaths, “You love it when I do this, when I use you like this… and I’m going to use you,” Every other word is emphasized by a forward thrust, “God, I’m going to fuck you and fill you with my come… and you’ll swallow every drop, John, I can see that’s what you want… you can’t hide anything from me,” His hand is hard on the back of John’s head, holding him still and John might be whimpering, he doesn’t even know. He’s rocking desperately up into the uneven strokes of his right hand, the muscles of his face are sore with the strain of keeping his lips taut, his fingers flexing and gripping Sherlock’s legs, digging his nails into the fabric there. He wants to come, he wants to feel Sherlock come and he doesn’t even understand why. Sherlock hasn’t slowed, he keeps shoving forward, hitting the back of John’s mouth in a way that is sure to leave John sore and coughing for days but that doesn’t mean he want it to stop. He sucks as best he can, keeps moving his tongue, drops his jaw more to give Sherlock better access to the back of his throat. Sherlock’s grip tightens in John’s hair, he might be pulling some out. John knows Sherlock is going to come very soon and the idea of it nearly throws him over the edge, he stops stroking for just a moment because the punishment for coming before Sherlock is not worth the temporary relief. Sherlock’s selfish strokes are becoming less even and rougher, he cares less and less for the strain he’s putting on John’s mouth and face. He closes his eyes and shoves forward with a huge an unexpected force, enough to knock John over if he weren’t gripping Sherlock’s legs and groans out, “Fuck, John, oh, _fuck_ ,” as his orgasm overwhelms him, coating John’s mouth and throat with thick squirts of come. John tastes and smells it at the same time, feels it spill over and down his throat and he’s swallowing it automatically, gently massaging the last of it out of Sherlock with his mouth and tongue. He tugs at his own cock once, twice more before his orgasm overtakes him, shooting thin ropes of semen onto Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock moves a little still, his body convulsing and making phantom strokes into John’s mouth as John uses his tongue to clean Sherlock’s cock.

There’s a bit of silence as they both attempt to catch their breath. John leans wearily against Sherlock, unable to hold himself up unassisted. Suddenly and without further warning, Sherlock pulls back, leaving John licking his lips and feeling disgustingly empty. He steps back, shaking his head, watching John grip his legs with a disgusted frown on his face. John feels like he’s melting under the gaze – like he underperformed and there’s a raw feeling of disappointment with himself creeping up into his come-filled, abused throat. Sherlock shakes his leg as if trying to remove an unwanted pest and John lets go. He slides ungracefully onto the floor and Sherlock’s frown curls slowly into a smirk as he tucks his spent cock back into his trouser and turns away, leaving John empty and alone on the floor.


End file.
